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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
11
ONE
DAY
I
reached
the
schoolhouse
very
late,
owing
to
attendance
upon
the
funeral
of
an
acquaintance
and
neighbor,
with
whose
sad
decline
in
health
I
had
been
familiar,
and
whose
last
days
both
the
doctor
and
Mrs.
Todd
had
tried
in
vain
to
ease.
The
services
had
taken
place
at
one
o'clock,
and
now,
at
quarter
past
two,
I
stood
at
the
schoolhouse
window,
looking
down
at
the
procession
as
it
went
along
the
lower
road
close
to
the
shore.
It
was
a
walking
funeral,
and
even
at
that
distance
I
could
recognize
most
of
the
mourners
as
they
went
their
solemn
way.
Mrs.
Begg
had
been
very
much
respected,
and
there
was
a
large
company
of
friends
following
to
her
grave.
She
had
been
brought
up
on
one
of
the
neighboring
farms,
and
each
of
the
few
times
that
I
had
seen
her
she
professed
great
dissatisfaction
with
town
life.
The
people
lived
too
close
together
for
her
liking,
at
the
Landing,
and
she
could
not
get
used
to
the
constant
sound
of
the
sea.
She
had
lived
to
lament
three
seafaring
husbands,
and
her
house
was
decorated
with
West
Indian
curiosities,
specimens
of
conch
shells
and
fine
coral
which
they
had
brought
home
from
their
voyages
in
lumber-laden
ships.
Mrs.
Todd
had
told
me
all
our
neighbor's
history.
They
had
been
girls
together,
and,
to
use
her
own
phrase,
had
“both
seen
trouble
till
they
knew
the
best
and
worst
on
't.”
I
could
see
the
sorrowful,
large
figure
of
Mrs.
Todd
as
I
stood
at
the
window.
She
made
a
break
in
the
procession
by
walking
slowly
and
keeping
the
after-part
of
it
back.
She
held
a
handkerchief
to
her
eyes,
and
I
knew,
with
a
pang
of
sympathy,
that
hers
was
not
affected
grief.
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